


Always Ready for Company

by OriginalCeenote



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Ancient curses, Angst, But Ororo is more interested in The Ladies, Cuddling, Domestic, Emma is a Wonderful Hostess, Emma is the Witch, F/F, Femslash, Fluff, Human Possession, Human Sacrifice to Avoid Natural Catastrophes, Hurt/Comfort, Logan is a Ladies' Man, Once she finishes scaring the crap out of her offering, Ororo is the Offering, Parlor Tricks, Smut, Stupid Villagers, Telepathic Manipulation, lots of comfort, sheesh Emma, the author is a horrible person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:06:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12164871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: “Are you the witch?” She stared at the enchantress before her, having expected someone more along the lines of a hag. “You’re the White Queen?”“Depends who’s asking, dear. Would you be the virgin sacrifice that the village keeps trying to offer me?”Ororo blinked.The witch smiled. “Would you like some cocoa?”





	1. These Sandals Weren't Made for Walking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Talliya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talliya/gifts).



The sandals hurt her feet, and Ororo shivered in the thin, plain shift, and the pins in her hair pulled at her scalp, making it sting. She walked the narrow dirt path toward her fate, telling herself with every step, It’s for the good of the village. The children will be able to eat. It’s for the best.

May she find the White Queen’s favor. Ororo clutched the small satchel of jewels tightly in her grip as she walked.

“Walk with me, Mother. Bless my journey.”

It was likely her last.

*

They were running out of virgins.

Every ten years, the village saw the signs. Dying crops. Shrinking streams and lakes. Hard-baked soil and herds of livestock thinning from sickness. Without having to be told, the locals knew that the Yield was at hand, and they scoured their own number, looking for a suitable offering.

She had to be young. Clean. Fresh-faced and sweet. Unspoiled.

 

When it came to her offerings, the White Queen held exacting standards. The tale survived over the generations, throughout three centuries of her power over their domain, and of her demands. The White Queen never walked among them, but she always chose a messenger. Any one of the villagers would go about their day, raking a yard, or drawing water from a well, when suddenly, their activity would cease. The messenger wouldn’t move, and their eyes would glow an eerie, unsettling yellow, striking fear into the hearts of passerby and making children cling to their mothers.

And every time, the message was the same, intoned in the White Queen’s voice, uttered impossibly from her messenger’s lips:

“The time has come for you to Yield me my offering. Bring her to me hence, on the next full moon, an hour after sunset, or your lands shall feel my fury. She shall be your best and brightest, pure of heart and body.”

No one had laid eyes upon her, but the rumors grew more elaborate with every decade.

“I’ve heard she has black talons for fingernails and snaggle teeth!” said Old Man Edmund as he harvested his cabbages.

“She’s ancient, with skin like papyrus. She’s a withered old crone.” Auntie McPhee murmured this in Rose’s ear as they shared a sweet roll outside the bakery. “I hear she’s truly hideous.”

“She has snakes for hair and gimlet eyes that will steal your soul if you stare into them too long!” Seamus, the town drunkard, swore this over his tankard. He cackled, showing gappy, rotted teeth. “Bet she’s a real looker!” That set off every man in the tavern warming the benches with their backsides, making them bellow with laughter.

“Then, perhaps you should court her,” Harry the barkeep suggested as he wiped down the bar. “Sounds like she’s just your type!”

“Alas,” Seamus admitted, “I’m not _her_ type, if you take my meaning.” Then, “Thank the gods!” Another round of cackles greeted that.

*

The Village Elders came to Ororo in the library, while she her nose was buried in another dusty-smelling book. A hard, cold pit grew in her stomach as she saw them enter the chamber, glancing around and quietly asking on the whereabouts of the one they sought. Their eyes fell upon her, and Ororo fought the urge to run. The taller one of the two smiled upon her, but his kind eyes held grim shadows.

“Are you N’Dare’s only daughter?”

“I was,” she told him, raising her chin a notch. Pride flared in her chest.

He nodded, making a sympathetic noise. “Apologies. Allow me to extend my condolences for the loss of your parents. They were upstanding, honorable people.”

“So, you honor their memory by extending my death sentence, in front of all these onlookers?”

His smile dropped. “You’re the only one who will suit. You have come of age.” He paused. “And… you are unsoiled?”

Oh, how she wanted to lie. 

“Please, child. Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

They were male. Old, stodgy, jaded men who lived through Yieldings before, smug that it never touched them. They had the luxury of old age, and of complacency. The Village Elders’ decree was sacrosanct and unbreakable. Ororo’s words failed her, but her eyes remained dry, and her spine straight. She closed her book, deciding she would prefer to finish enjoying it – savoring it – in the privacy of her own room.

In case she mistook their meaning, they sent a page to hand deliver the scroll, and the Elder’s seal was painted upon her front door, marking her as the White Queen’s Gift. Old Auntie Maude’s hand, gnarled with arthritis, managed to paint the seal flawlessly, not wasting a drop of the white stain. She eyed Ororo with pity, but she forced hardness into her voice. “You know the rules, child.”

“I’ve always known them. And surely you have better things to do.”

“Eh.” Maude shrugged and wandered off in high dudgeon, muttering under her breath about “a waste of an eligible girl, might have made a decent wife if not for that mouth on her,” and other disparagements. Ororo longed to tell her that would have made _nothing_ of the sort, even if her village hadn’t chosen to thrust her into the void.

Ororo took her sweet time with the book, attempting to lose herself in the heroine’s world and life of adventure. She would return it on the last night of the waxing gibbous, as a courtesy. She scrawled a brief letter to Mary-Edith, the librarian, donating her meager supply of books, so they would not go to waste. Over the next few days, she bundled up her clothes and gave them away, along with knick-knacks and small mementos she’d acquired over the years. The only items she kept were her mother’s jewels. Because Ororo had a plan.

She would appeal to the White Queen’s sense of vanity and offer her the jewelry. N’Dare had a meager collection of pieces that were valuable, nonetheless, and that Ororo treasured because they belonged to her mother. Sometimes, she took out the ruby brooch, running her fingertip over the large, flawless stone. Sometimes, she felt her mother’s spirit imbued in the stone, and it calmed her.

*

 

The Aunties got a hold of her. Ororo suffered their attentions now.

It involved hair-pulling. Ridiculous cosmetics. And an impractical white shift, too thin to protect her from the elements. It looked sheer against her dark skin; Ororo felt naked in it. Vulnerable. They wound her long, soft waves of hair into snug braids, looping and coiling them into pleasing shapes and pinning them up with pearls. Auntie Maude doused her with a cloying perfume that made her cough.

“That’ll do. You’ll do nicely,” she encouraged. Ororo minced in the uncomfortable, impractical sandals that were a tad too small for her long feet.

She knew this was her destiny. Her parents tried to fight it, over the years. 

They were strangers to the village, ten years ago, shortly after the last Yielding. Finding out about the village’s cursed condition took them months, and by that time, they set down roots. Ororo was a gangly-limbed ten-year-old, innocent, bright and promising true adult beauty. David and N’Dare were proud of their daughter, but they fought a losing battle to spare Ororo her fate. The White Queen’s Gift had to have reached the age of twenty, no more, no less. She had to be a virgin. She had to be intelligent and lovely as the sunrise. 

N’Dare encouraged her daughter over the years to allow herself to be “caught.” The women in the village tsked at her efforts to find her daughter a husband, or even to drop hints that taking a lover wouldn’t be shameful, if it meant it would save her life. But Ororo had other ideas. She kept her nose in a book and eschewed her peers’ efforts to win the eye of the village boys. Each year, Ororo grew in stature and beauty, scoring higher marks in her lessons than the other young women. One boy’s attempt to steal a kiss resulted in a black eye. Ororo didn’t suffer such nonsense, and his breath smelled like a sheep’s testicle.

Her father, for all of his fears that Ororo would catch the Village Elders’ attention, silently cheered his daughter’s insistence to choose her own path. N’Dare bemoaned her daughter’s unwed, unkissed status.

“They can’t all be this handsome,” David bragged to his wife, throwing out his chest and showing her his profile with a smug look. N’Dare swatted his fanny, making him yelp.

“But one of them could save her life!” she hissed.

“She has standards. Just like her mother,” he told her, which certainly didn’t help, and it didn’t save him from his wife’s side-eye. “You wouldn’t ask her to lower them?”

N’Dare opened her mouth, then closed it. A moment later, she muttered, “No. Of _course_ not.”

After Ororo’s nineteenth birthday, the earth experienced growing pains. Violent tremors shook the ground, topping houses and turning small shops and the apothecary, temples and bakeries into rubble. Several homes were crushed, and bodies were dug from the ruins. Ororo was in the house, snug in her room when the first tremors rocked the structure, and bits of the ceiling crumbled, some of them landing in her hair. She huddled in the corner as the tremors grew in intensity. Paintings fell from the walls and her mother’s jars of herbs and books fell from the shelves, crashing to the floor in a hail of noise and destruction. She heard her mother and father’s screams from the other side of the house, before everything went dark.

She didn’t recognize the hoarse, weakened voice as her own when the villagers came and saved her. Logan, her childhood suitor, and now one of the only true friends she had, was the one who pulled aside the beam that narrowly missed killing her, and he was the one who told her the grim news. Tears streaked through the grime and dust on his face. “I don’t wanna tell you this, darlin’,” he confessed.

“Mother… Father…”

“They’re gone, sweetheart. They went together.”

She fought him, once he pulled her from the wreckage and into the light, screaming and crying until she collapsed against his chest. Logan cradled her and let her cry. She could salvage precious few of her belongings. The Village Elders decreed that her home would be rebuilt, but her parents could no longer speak for her future, or contest the decree that Ororo Munroe would serve her village as the Gift at the next Yielding.

For months, Logan made the offer for her. Marriage. A rendezvous. Casual gropings. All met with an annoyed wrinkle of her nose. 

“We could be good together for the long haul. You know I’d treat you right, darlin’.”

“I know.” She caressed his cheek. “But I’d be all wrong for you, old friend.”

He heaved a sigh. “There’s that word, again…”

“At least I didn’t punch you this time.” She frequently reminded him of that. And she refused his furtive offer one last time when she went to draw some water from her well. 

“C’mon, darlin’. There’s only two nights left.” He glanced around for prying Aunties around the perimeter of Ororo’s cottage, and he lowered his voice to a rough rasp. “The decree would be forfeit.”

“And the village will perish. I might live, but I couldn’t live with myself.”

And Logan was certainly rugged, handsome, and charming, but Ororo knew she couldn’t give him a future as his wife. It just wasn’t in the cards. For reasons.

*

The Village Elders gave her a somber send-off. The village children threw flowers at her feet as she left, escorted by the Aunties until she reached the large clearing, a few miles out. 

“There. Climb up that hill, until you reach the gates. They will be lit by torches. You must greet the White Queen with the words on this scroll.” She handed Ororo the same scroll with the Elder’s decree. “That way, she will recognize you as her Gift.”

“As opposed to some random visitor offering to sell her some fresh eggs and jams.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m off!” Ororo called over her shoulder. The Aunties stood dumbfounded for a few moments.

“She’d never suit if she stayed,” one of them marveled.

“I’ll miss her, though. Sassy baggage.”

“Are you crying, Eunice?”

“I just have something in my eye… never you mind.”

An hour after sunrise, just cool enough for the evening mosquitoes to start biting her too-bare flesh. Ororo shivered as she listened to small creatures skittering in the brush, hoping that the snakes wouldn’t be drawn to the sound of the leaves snapping beneath her shoes. The dirt path became clearer the closer she drew to the gates. The hill grew steep, and her satchel felt heavy, but Ororo continued her climb, determined to get there before sunrise, to honor the bargain. 

The moon was enormous and silver, breathtaking as she stared at it for the final time.

Torchlight.

The tall iron gates appeared imposing and ornate, dwarfing her. She pushed on one, and it yielded to her, allowing her entry. Ororo walked over the pristine, green grass. There were no weeds or sharp rocks for her to stumble over, unlike the path or the hillside. Her traitorous feet walked her toward her fate, instead of letting her seek cover, but she heard a voice on the wind, and the fear that seized her heart made her wonder if she imagined it.

_”Who goes there?_ ”

“You know who I am!” Ororo called out, voice shaking. She pulled out the scroll.

The wind spoke again. _”Then, don’t leave me waiting, child._ ”

Ororo opened the scroll as she neared the great door. The White Queen’s citadel scoffed at the sky with its sheer size. It put the finest houses in the village to shame, and Ororo wondered why she saw no staff there to greet her.

Yet the door opened of its own accord, and sconces burned along the walls, lighting the corridor. Ororo smelled sweet scents of jasmine and sandalwood, as well as a hint of petrichor; the night promised a light but steady rain. More’s the pity, she decided. Ororo loved rain.

“Closer,” a voice whispered.

Ororo’s feet urged her forward.

“I’m not afraid,” Ororo challenged.

“Liar.”

The door closed behind her with a loud, final thud. Ororo bit back a sob of fear, but she continued down the corridor, and without further direction, turned left.

The chamber was large and spacious, lit by more sconces.

“Hello, child.”

The voice was lilting and soft, owned by the shadows. Ororo felt a shiver run through her body, and she felt chilled. There was no furniture, but the walls were dressed with framed paintings depicting beautiful countrysides and flowers Ororo couldn’t name. 

“Please… show yourself.” Ororo unrolled the scroll and read from it in a clear voice. “I’ve come to give you my life for the lives of the village. Please end their torment and restore the harvest, so that they may live.”

“Goodness, that nonsense again.” The voice gave a long-suffering sigh and chuckled.

Ororo frowned in confusion. “Er… look. I brought you… something. I know this isn’t conventional, but-”

“You brought me something? You mean, aside from yourself?” 

“A… token. My-m-m-my Qu-Queen.”

“Go on.”

“If you come out into the light, where I can s-see you. Majesty.”

“So bold.” The voice sounded impressed, but still held a note of amusement. Ororo was surprised to hear how young she sounded, not at all craggy, rough or shrill. “As you wish, child.”

There was a flare of light, and from the center of the chamber, flames erupted from the floor in hungry billows! Ororo screamed, shrinking back from it, dropping the useless scroll. 

“Please, my Queen!”

The room filled with arcane laughter, and a large black shape formed itself from the smoke, twisting and coiling until it touched the vaulted ceiling. The room, imposing before, suddenly felt too small to contain the creature floating menacingly above Ororo.

The crone’s appearance defied her melodic voice. “Give yourself to me, child!”

“MOTHER! GIVE ME STRENGTH! BRING ME TO YOU!” Ororo screamed. She tripped over the hem of the ridiculous, long shift in her ill-fitting sandals, falling backward, and she scooched back as the figure towered above her, bending down… down. Ororo dug in her satchel and took out the ruby, brandishing it against her.

The tales weren’t exaggerated after all; they were merely false, and they didn’t even compare to the truth. The White Queen was a _demon_ , and she was going to devour Ororo and leave behind nothing but a memory. Ororo screamed herself hoarse as she felt the flames close in on her…

Yet, there was no heat.

The soared over her, licking over her flesh, but she felt nothing. Her hair and skin didn’t singe. They didn’t even stir the flimsy fabric of her shift. “What?”

“Goodness, you should see your face.”

“What?” Ororo repeated. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her pulse refused her commands to slow; she heard it in her ears. Her skin felt cold, and she closed her eyes as the crone drew closer… grew _smaller_...

Smaller.

_Smaller_.

Human-sized. The flames dwindled until they disappeared, leaving the chamber dark once more except for the sconces. 

Ororo trembled on the floor, still holding the brooch in her hand.

“What… are you?”

“Right now? Amused. Oh, sweetheart. Your face.” There was that… laughter again, but this time it was chagrined. “You’ll have such a tale to tell when you eventually leave me.”

“When I… what?”

“They all eventually do.”

“‘They?’”

“The ones the Elders keep sending up here. I’ll be the first to admit, however, Ororo, that you’re the most remarkable one they’ve sent up the hill to me, yet.”

She was still made of shadow, but her demonic countenance disappeared, and instead Ororo noticed her stately, tall silhouette. She drew back the hood of her dark cloak as she walked fully into the light.

She was breathtaking.

Silver-blue eyes stared down at Ororo where she sat, still edging back from her. “Oh, dear. Do get up.” She reached down for her and grasped Ororo’s wrist. Her hand still gripped the ruby. “That’s lovely, dear. Where did you get that?”

“It… it was Mother’s.”

“Ah. A talisman.” She turned Ororo’s palm over so she could better look at it. She touched its slick surface, and then she stared into Ororo’s face. “It meant so much for her to give this to you. I can hear her whispering through it.” She closed Ororo’s fingers over it, and her hands were cool. “Keep it close to you.”

“Are you the witch?” She stared at the enchantress before her, having expected someone more along the lines of a hag. “You’re the White Queen?”

“Depends who’s asking, dear. Would you be the virgin sacrifice that the village keeps trying to offer me?”

Ororo blinked.

The witch smiled. “Would you like some cocoa?”


	2. Every Once In a Blue Moon… Or, Ten of Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the Yielding came to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This grew a little out of control from the prompt, but I enjoyed writing this.

The cocoa was delicious. Emma merely waved her hand, and the golden mug appeared in her grip. She presented it to Ororo with a flourish and a low, silly “Ta-da!” Ororo’s eyes widened in delight and surprise.

“Is there a hint of cinnamon in this?”

“Of course!”

“Mmmm.”

“Enjoy it. You look chilly, dear. I’m getting cold just looking at you.” With that, Emma waved her hand again, and Ororo’s simple, flimsy shift slowly grew, rearranging itself around her, fabric thickening into a more durable, woolen weave, until Ororo wore a long, soft caftan and matching robe. Ororo stroked the sleeve with an admiring hand.

“Weren’t you… just on fire a moment ago?”

“Just a little parlor trick. I like to make grand entrances.”

“That was, uh… grand?”

Emma chuckled again, scrunching up her perfect, turned-up nose. “Goodness, you’re a refreshing surprise compared to the rest.”

“This is the second time you’ve mentioned the rest.”

“Where are my manners?” Emma asked no one in particular. “Dear, you look exhausted.”

“Forgive my manners, my Queen-”

“Emma. Please. Call me Emma.”

“That’s lovely, but it would hardly be proper-”

“I don’t stand on ceremony. But, you were about to ask me if you could take off those awful shoes, weren’t you?”

Ororo’s face was wreathed in relief. “Yes.”

“Let me.”

The shoes disappeared, and Emma replaced them with a soft pair of satin slippers lined with fleece. Ororo wiggled her toes in them and smiled at how decadent they felt. “That’s an improvement, isn’t it?”

“Much.”

“The Aunties never dress you for comfort. It’s just so short-sighted. Sacrifice the virgin, send her to freeze to death on the hill…”

“But… you dictate that.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re the White Queen. The Elders decreed how the Gift… how I, and the others… how we are supposed to appear, in your presence. White is the color of purity.”

“Well-”

“And the Elders foretold that the White Queen consumes the Gift and feeds on her life essence and purity. There’s no point in dressing elaborately. Gets in the way of the, uh, consumption.”

Emma’s brows beetled. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I just did what I was told.”

“Oh, child.” Emma looped her arm through Ororo’s, and Ororo was surprised at how delicate and graceful she appeared. Her patrician features were and bone structure would be the envy of the village, and her hair hung down her shoulders in long, bright golden sheaves. Beneath her cloak, she wore a sparkling white gown. “You deserve so much better than the cards you’ve been dealt.”

Ororo’s feet followed the Queen’s urging again, but this time, they left the dark, gloomy chamber and strolled down the hall at a sedate pace. They rounded the corner and Ororo felt her mouth drop open at the sight of the library, every wall covered in book shelves that reached as high as the ceiling. The room smelled like parchment and ink, and there was a cheerful fire blazing in the hearth. There were fainting couches and overstuffed chairs and ottomans, cushions and plush rugs. So many places for a body to curl up and enjoy any of the beautiful books, all of them in perfect condition.

“Is this heaven?” Ororo breathed.

“It is to you,” Emma murmured as she watched Ororo’s face. “But you’re very much alive, dear.”

Ororo’s hand fluttered to her chest, and her eyes pricked. “This is what I’ve dreamt about. There are so many things… so many places you can go in books.” She gently released Emma’s arm and wandered around the room in a slow turn. “Emma, this is glorious.”

“It’s yours.”

“What?” Ororo spun to face her, eyes demanding to know if she’d heard her correctly.

“You may come in here whenever you like.”

“But-”

“In case you were wondering, Ororo, I have no plans to eat you today.”

*

Emma kept her promise in that regard. 

And there were privileges that went along with being the Queen’s Gift.

Like, luxury.

Emma showed Ororo to a room appointed in soft shades of blue and green. “It’s hardly been used,” Emma confessed. Her eyes looked sad.

“This is lovely.” 

“You can use the jewelry box. For your mother’s things.”

“But-”

“You may. For as long as you choose to stay here.”

“I can stay here?” Ororo’s head swam with confusion. Her scalp still felt tight from the horrid pins.

Emma waved her hand, and the pins and pearls slowly eased themselves out of Ororo’s hair, and the braids carefully unwound themselves, lying over her shoulders and back in a mass of loose waves. “Better,” Emma murmured.

Ororo sipped from her mug and set down her satchel. “The others. Where did they go? Did they stay long?”

“I sent them off. I make them that offer, on the first night that they arrive.”

“Why do you insist on accepting your Gift so late at night?”

“Because I’m not a morning person _at all._ ”

Ororo looked taken aback. Then, she laughed outright. “Not a morning person…!”

“I need my beauty rest,” Emma sniffed. “This isn’t effortless, you know.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

That made a genuine smile bloom across Emma’s lips. “Well. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Emma waved her hand, and the armoire opened, letting a loose, comfortable cotton nightgown fly out to hover in front of Ororo, waiting to be worn. “It’s just your size.”

“Thank you.”

“Finish your cocoa. It’s still hot.”

She warmed Ororo’s cocoa with a thought. Ororo couldn’t quell the nagging thought when it arrived:

Why had the others left?

*

 

When Ororo woke in the morning, golden sunlight streamed in through the windows. Emma had opened the curtains while she slept.

The sight of Ororo, tousled, the top half of her winsome body worked free from the tangle of covers, made Emma’s breath catch. Her hair spread itself across the pillows in a chaotic mass of waves. In the morning light, Emma saw the details she couldn’t fully appreciate in the dark; her face was relaxed and composed. Her dark skin was unblemished and looked so soft. High, sweeping cheekbones and her soft, full mouth tempted Emma, but she allowed herself to tell her “Time for breakfast, Ororo” and watched those sapphire blue eyes drift open.

“I’m still alive.”

“At the moment.”

“This wasn’t a dream.” Ororo yawned and freed herself from the bed clothes. “You’re still not a hag.”

“No. Not at the moment,” Emma tsked, but her lips twitched. Ororo sat at the edge of the bed, sobering.

“I’m your Gift. What do you wish of me?”

Emma considered the question for a few moments. She cleared her throat before she answered her, “I wish to share things with you. Very important things. Things that might change your outlook.”

“I was brought up with the expectation that I would have to one day save my village. Even if I could never return to it.”

“If you want to save your village, then that is true, Ororo.”

Ororo paled. She eased back toward the head of the bed, fingers twisting in the sheets. “What are you telling me?”

“You were sent here as a sacrifice. They won’t expect you to return.”

“But-”

“And you had no family,” Emma reminded her. “Consider why they sent you. You’re perfect, certainly. But remember that there was no one to fight for you. To protect you from a cruel fate.” Emma hated this truth; she stayed up the night before, mulling this over. There was no way not to hurt her “offering” with this revelation. “The Village Elders knew this.”

Ororo hugged the pillow against her body and looked smaller and uncertain; the gesture was almost childish and completely at odds with her demeanor.

“The beauty of it is, you can start over. You don’t have to walk back down that hill.”

Ororo snorted. “Why would I destroy their illusions?” Her voice sounded bitter as she admitted to Emma, “They think you have snakes for hair and breathe fire!”

“Only when it suits me. I’m a witch, darling, but I also have the gift of the sight. My visions told me I would meet someone who would change my thinking, and my own path.”

“How long?” Ororo toyed with the fringe around the pillow’s border. “How long have you known it would be me?

“Decades.”

“Decades,” Ororo repeated hollowly. She huffed. “So. My life was never my own.”

“Ororo…”

“I think I need a few minutes to myself to think about this.”

“Of course.”

Emma retreated from the doorway, leaving her Gift to her thoughts.

*

Emma ruminated over her tea in her solarium. Her fortress was less imposing, and more welcoming during daylight. 

She didn’t look like the woman who was holding her village hostage, Ororo thought. Emma was sitting in a pool of sunlight shining in from the picture window, skin and hair aglow.

“Not hostage,” Emma argued aloud as she looked up and found Ororo dressed in the robe from the night before, lingering in the doorway.

“What else would you call it? I’m the ransom, aren’t I?”

“No. You’re the tribute. The Gift.”

“To you.”

“No. To the earth, dear.”

Ororo had been about to pour herself a cup of the fragrant tea, but her hand shook. The tea splashed over the rim of the cup until Emma got up and leaned across the table to steady the pot in her grip. “I’m not just a witch, Ororo. I’m your village’s guardian. I have a kinship with the earth itself. All of its power flows through me.” She gestured to the window to their left. “Watch those clouds.”

Before Ororo’s eyes, they shifted and changed shape, following Emma’s silent commands and the slow, graceful movement of her hand.

“I cast a spell when I was a young woman and underestimated its power and the hold it would have on me. It bound me to the earth. It cursed me.” Emma stirred her own tea and offered Ororo the small jar of sugar. “To a long life. One of loneliness.”

“The village thinks you’re a demon.”

“Perhaps they’re not wrong. I was irresponsible, and I pay for it with every lonely turn of the seasons.”

“You’re lonely?”

“ _So_ lonely.” Emma’s tone was mournful. Her smile looked sad as she sipped her tea.

“How do you live in this ridiculous place? It’s enormous, and you’re rattling around in it alone,” Ororo accused. “My old bedroom could fit into this kitchen-”

“You hate small spaces,” Emma interjected.

Ororo shrank back from her, setting down her cup. “Don’t do that.”

“Oh, Ororo, I’m sorry!”

“Just don’t.” Ororo pushed back from the table and fled back to her room. And Emma couldn’t help it, the urge to get to know Ororo was inarguable and consuming, but she felt a door in Ororo’s mind slam shut after that brief contact and taste of her thoughts. Guilt swamped Emma when she fully realized how she’d erred. 

She mulled this as the rest of the morning passed. Ororo had lost so much, and Emma tried to take something else away from her. Betrayed her trust.

That just wouldn’t do.

*

Ororo made the first overture of forgiveness, and of apology. She found Emma in the solarium again, reading a book from her immense collection. Ororo looked timid, and her eyes were suspiciously red and puffy. But she was resolute.

She stood before Emma, arms folded. “I truly don’t like small spaces. Or being trapped in the dark.”

“Then, my home must have still seemed frightening to you.”

“Yes. It did.”

“Your rooms are yours to use however you wish. You may change them to suit you.”

“I’d like to go outside, Emma.”

“Not in your nightclothes?”

“That’s what I normally wear when I go outside, in front of all the Aunties and Seamus,” Ororo quipped.

“Seamus? Ugh…” Emma wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Even when I borrowed him as my messenger, that brief contact with his mind made me feel unwashed.”

“Promise me you won’t use me in such a way.”

Emma looked appalled. “Ororo. No, I… I wouldn’t.” Emma set down her book. Her cheeks flushed furiously as she mulled the implications. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I’ve only ever meant to prepare the village for the Yielding-”

“I can speak for myself.”

“Yes. And you should. Always.”

“I need to feel like I’m here of my own accord. That I’m not your puppet.”

Emma sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. “You could never be _anyone’s_ puppet, let alone mine. You have a maddening gift for speaking your own mind.”

That made Ororo smile, and Emma knew at that moment that she would never deny Ororo anything. That she would sooner die than disappoint her. She also wanted to give her reason to stay, even though the spell that bound Emma almost guaranteed that she remained alone through the centuries. 

*

When her Gifts stayed by her side, that meant Emma had to watch them die. Forever immortal. Outliving everyone she ever loved. Whenever a new Gift arrived on her doorstep, frightened but resolute, Emma wondered to herself if this was the one who would stay. She usually knew within the first year.

They were virgins. And often times, the Village Elders, pompous farts that they were, selected them not only for their purity, but for their marriageability, or lack thereof. The stronger-willed and sharper-tongued the girl, the more likely she was to make that walk up the hill when she reached twenty. Emma was twenty herself, when she cast her spell, after the Elders of generations prior deemed that she wasn’t wifing material, when the Aunties, who doubled as matchmakers within the village, whispered to them that young Emma was “absolutely hopeless. A bad influence,” despite her beauty. Always had her  nose buried in a book. Had no respect or authority. Her older sisters already married, and both of them had several fat babies apiece. Winston and Hazel, her long-suffering parents, evaded questions about their youngest daughter, who ignored even the most determined of suitors, no matter their qualifications, wealth or charm.

Emma cursed herself the day she found that grimoire in the village library, when she ventured into those stacks when the Auntie who ran it had her back turned, tucked it into her long, dark cloak and hurried home, heart pounding in her chest. She snuck into her house, up the stairs in a breathless rush and locked her bedroom door behind her; her parents left her a brief note that they were watching a play in the town square, and that if she wished to grant them some tiny favor to please them, would she put on her blue gown and meet them in the first row of seats, as Brian, the Elder’s son, would also be in attendance? Emma had no intention of catching his eye. He was vain and thick, and Emma had no time for him.

So, she stole time for herself, in her room, and found an isolation spell. It was protective, according to the book, and it would shield the wielder from the harmful intentions of the people around them, and from their control and manipulation.

The spell required blood.

Emma shrugged her shoulders, picked up a long, wicked-looking hat pin from her vanity, and murmured “What could it hurt?”

She lit the candles. Drew the circle in black salt, centered herself, and spoke the chant. She shed three drops of her own blood and spoke her intentions to the spirits…

“All I want is to be left alone. Without anyone trying to foist me off on some brute, or tell me that I’m lesser because I won’t suffer it.” 

And she didn’t feel any different. “Huh.” Not even _slightly_ different.

Until she stepped outside, bundled into her cloak, with the book tucked under her arm. The smells were too sharp. Bird song and barking dogs attacked her ears like a cacophony. Every color overwhelmed her eyes, and she felt the ground shuddering beneath her feet, as though it wanted to pull her under.

The wind spoke to her. _You’ve done it now._

“W-what?”

_Hello, Mistress._

Two Aunties passing by stared at her incredulously, elbowing each other. “Winston and Hazel’s youngest is out and about awfully late,” one of them murmured, but her voice grated on Emma’s nerves like sandpaper.

“Up to no good, no doubt.”

“Get away from me!” Emma screeched.

And the winds listened to her. Sudden, devastating gusts blasted the two old women back, knocking them off their feet. Their eyes widened in horror while the winds tore at their hair and clothing, stirring up eddies of leaves and pebbles.

“Spirits protect us! She’s a _demon!_ ”

“NO!”

Yes.

 

The villagers came out of their homes, confused at the racket and commotion. All of them stared at Emma, in her simple black cloak and white linen dress, clutching the ominous grimoire. Her face was pale and frightened, but she was determined to get away from them, to get back to the library.

They closed in on her, driven by the Aunties’ claims that she manipulated the very _air_. But before they could smother Emma, the ground beneath their feet shook, trembling and drowning them out with noise and destruction. Emma tightened her grip on the book and ran, but then she headed for the library, she heard the winds again, whispering to her.

_Go. Follow the dirt path through the trees, and into the hills._

The moon overhead mocked Emma, large and full, throwing light upon her shame. It was the last any of them saw of her. But as the months, and then years passed, the rumors grew more elaborate, as did the legends.

The animals spoke to Emma in her own tongue. So did the rain and the earth. She huddled under an old, stone lean-to for days, half-starved and cold, convinced that she’d gone mad. But her bond to the earth only grew stronger, and she kept herself entirely isolated as a means of protecting herself.

The rocks yielded to her bidding. So did the trees. Her lean-to offered little shelter from the rain, until she willed it to grow, and she erected another wall with a mere thought.

*

Every ten years, the earth called out to Emma, calling on her to honor her spell. Every year, the Messenger contacted the villagers with warnings and decrees, always in a different form, but always with Emma Frost’s distinctive lilt. Every year, Emma set another young, unwed, intelligent woman free from the narrow minds around her, through the fearsome act of sacrifice. 

And every time, Emma extended the offer to stay. To offer her protection. But within the first year, some of them would pine for home. Some of them were merely “late bloomers.” Some of them only wanted to put off starting a family of their own until they had seen more of the world or pursued greater knowledge and higher education, or learned a trade. The Village Elders frowned upon such things, calling it heresy. Emma sent some of them off, cleaning their minds of her memory with a brief, chaste kiss and pointing them down the opposite side of the hill with a fat purse of coins. Some of them married. Some of them became a new village’s Auntie and honorable matchmaker. 

Sometimes, Emma would find a kindred spirit. Her magic grew and intensified with time, and her ability to know a person’s thoughts was both blessing and curse. Sometimes, she couldn’t shut out her Gift’s thoughts and feelings. The moment when she realized that her Gift felt compelled to stay, whether it was out of duty, or out of fear that Emma would retaliate by harming the village, no matter how well Emma treated her, Emma would plan her release. And she would set out one last, fine meal. She would push aside the clouds to reveal the moon, bright, full and clear, and she would dress her Gift in the finest silks with but a thought. 

And she would tell her, “I’m about to give you a choice that not many women in your place receive, child. Your freedom was taken from you, and you have willingly stayed here as part of your sentence, rather than perish. You have fulfilled your obligation to your village. You may stay with me, or you may find your fortune alone.”

Emma always missed the ones who hesitated at first most.

*

Emma wondered how long Ororo would linger. If she would hesitate.


	3. Good Advice from Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Time for fluff. I promised fluff. And bits of snark and smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this went in weird directions, and this is just me indulging in Ororo/Emma for the sake of creating content for one of my rarer OTPs. The content needs to exist. There isn’t anywhere near enough of it.
> 
> Additional Note: This got angsty, too. Oopsie.

Ororo never knew there were so many varieties of birds. That they had such distinctive songs, each one. All of them greeted her when she entered the clearing at the top of the hill, after a long hike. Emma allowed her to walk slightly ahead of her, but she moved sharp rocks out of the way of Ororo’s feet, shifting low-hanging branches aside to let her safely pass. 

Emma’s clearing was green and lush, blooming with wildflowers. The trees were dressed with dogwood petals and cherry blossoms, displaying a riot of pinks to thrill the eye. N’Dare and David forbade her from coming up the hill as a child, for fear that she would earn the White Queen’s ire. Ororo sighed at the irony, now, as she breathed in the crisp air and felt the breeze stirring her hair from its loose braids.

“You get to come here every day,” Ororo told Emma. 

“I do. Quite often.”

“You’re so fortunate. You have so much.”

“You sound bitter. Why?”

“You have no boundaries. No limits. You can go anywhere. You can enjoy this without worrying about chores, or a husband, or embarrassing your parents, without having anyone tell you that you’re too bookish or that your tongue is too sharp. No one to make you sit by the fire with a basket of mending, and no snotty noses to wipe. Any time you wish, you can just come out here and listen to the birds.”

Unbeknownst to Ororo, the birds had an opinion on the subject, too.

“No one told you that you couldn’t go up the hill.”

“Not in so many words, Ororo.” Emma joined her side and reached for her hand. Her fingers felt cool and soft. Ororo looked surprised at the contact, but not displeased. “I’ve never been very good at doing what I was told.” 

Ororo’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Oh, I never would have thought that of you at all.” Emma felt a smile spread across her own lips. It wouldn’t be her last that day.

They walked across the field, and Ororo felt comfortable in Emma’s presence, their contact easy and natural. They were of a height; despite the legends of the White Queen towering over everyone, she was actually an inch shorter than Ororo, with soft, willowy curves. They looked like two bosom friends strolling back from the park for a cup of tea, not like a sorceress and tribute.

And as they walked, Ororo talked, about every topic she never found an interested audience for, before.

“My friend Logan wanted to help me out of my predicament. His methods were a bit coarse.”

“And predictable, by the look on your face.”

“He was determined. Any other girl would have been flattered.”

“You’ve never been ‘any other girl’. How did you feel about him?”

“I gave him a black eye when we were children. He’s grown more charming since then.”

“But?” Emma’s smile widened with amusement.

“But…” Ororo wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Charm only gets you so far.”

“What would have made him the perfect man for you, then, dear?”

“Nothing could have made him the perfect man. No _man_ would have been ‘perfect.’”

Oh.

“No man… at all?”

“Regrettably, no.”

“You don’t sound regretful.”

“Oh. I suppose I don’t.”

The weather cooperated for them, breezy and bright. Ororo mentioned offhandedly that she was hungry, once they neared the trees. Emma decided to show her a trick.

“You’re going to like this.” Emma let go of Ororo’s hand - albeit reluctantly - and approached the tallest cherry tree, thick with blossoms, whose branches were so dense that they blocked out the sky. “Up,” she said imperiously, raising her arms and spreading them wide.

A long, woody vine snaked its way loose from the tree’s trunk and slowly wrapped itself around Emma’s waist. It lifted her as though she weighed no more than a soap bubble. Emma felt its energy flowing through her, and she returned it to the tree, coaxing the cherry blossoms on the closest branch to yield their fruit. The petals shed themselves, and small, hard buds in their centers darkened and grew into gleaming, ripe cherries and came away into Emma’s hand with the lightest tug. Ororo watched this, transfixed. Emma slowly descended to the ground, and the vine released her. She turned to Ororo and handed her the sprigs of fruit. Emma looked very pleased with herself.

“What if the tree wasn’t ready to give them up?” Ororo asked.

“Well… she didn’t mind it. Not much.”

“You shouldn’t rush her.”

_She’s right. No need to be so pushy._

Emma pouted at the tree. “That’s enough out of you.”

“Pardon?” Ororo was working on one of the cherries, chewing and sucking the fruit from around the pit. The sight of her lips as she did this distracted Emma.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Let’s head back to the house.”

*  
Ororo wasn’t shy about serving her own plate. She ate so fast that Emma couldn’t get the occasional, garbled reply of “Mm. Mm-hm, mm-hmmph, s’gud,” any time that she asked how she was enjoying the food.

Yet, Emma remembered how it felt to be hungry, especially with an image-conscious mother who didn’t want her daughter to grow into a fat cow, constantly hissing “refrain, dear” every time Emma picked up a serving spoon. 

Emma cheerfully surrendered the sorbet when Ororo glanced at it with interest. Raspberry, garnished with rose petals and mint, and truly _decadent_.

*

Emma met her match in Ororo at the chess table. And at every other game she suggested. 

Oh, it would be so hard to say goodbye, when that time arrived.

*

Emma’s tongue slipped again one morning, while Ororo perused the book shelves in the library. “There’s more of that tea you like, and I can bring in some lemons from the orchard, it will only take a-”

“Emma? Please don’t.” Ororo eyed her gravely, replacing the history text back on the shelf.

“- moment?”

“I know your power gives you certain… advantages. But my mind is my own, and I’d appreciate it if you respected that.”

Emma’s cheeks flushed in shame. “Oh. I didn’t… I’m sorry. It’s… just so instinctive. I have a hard time blocking all of it out. It’s like listening to the crickets at night when you’re trying to settle in for bed. They just won’t stop, and... “

“Are you comparing me to a cricket?”

“No, you goose.”

Ororo’s lips curled, but her eyes remained serious. “I value the privacy of my own thoughts, Emma.”

“All right. It’s… you’re right.” Emma looked chastened. Ororo sighed, realizing the concession that she could make, if it behooved her.

“I wouldn’t mind the tea. If you were planning to fix a cup for yourself.”

What Emma wouldn’t - couldn’t - admit was that Ororo’s thoughts were so _inviting_ that it was hard to leave them untouched.

“Then, we’ll have tea, dear.”

*

Days rolled on. Ororo didn’t faint dead away when Emma revealed how old she was, but she did look awed. Thoughtful. 

“So, you’re truly all alone, then.”

“Not _all_ alone. I have you. And those who came before you. And the wind itself keeps me company.”

“But, your old friends, your family-”

“Friends were in short supply. And my family didn’t understand the definition of the word. I was more alone, then.”

“How do you cope?”

“By exercising blatant disregard for the proper order of things. And playing with the Villager Elders every now and again. They can always use some shaking up.”

Ororo had a thought. “I thought I was imagining things once when I saw the ground push itself up under Seamus’ feet and toss him into the horse trough. Was that you?” Ororo’s eyes twinkled with this possibility.

“However could that have happened?” Emma wondered. She cocked one platinum blonde brow and winked at Ororo. “Let’s go pick some more cherries.”

The trees adored Ororo just as much as Emma did. Whenever the two women occupied their branches, slender, winding vines would twine themselves around her arm, or her ankle, poking tendrils into her soft hair while they listened to the winds rattling the leaves.

_Don’t let her go, Mistress._

Emma sighed. The likely future of wandering around in her large house alone for endless decades made her weary and created a hollow space in her chest.

Ororo stared at Emma and reached for her hand. Her fingers were warm and gentle. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, dear. Are you warm enough?”

“It’s perfect outside. No worries.” The weather cooperated with any urgings from Emma. The sun shone hot and bright while frequent breezes swept over them, cooling the air. “Emma?”

“Hmm?”

“What was it like… before? Did anyone court you?”

Emma wrinkled her nose, and she giggled outright, making Ororo smile in anticipation of a tale. “Oh. It’s… once in a while. Let’s just say that Mother called me ‘ungrateful’ more often than not.”

“What did you do?” Ororo asked mischievously.

“Oh, darling, what _didn’t_ I do?” Emma leaned in toward Ororo, already enjoying the memory and the chance to share it. “This one boorish vicar’s son used to call up to my bedroom window, making the worst display. He used to recite horrid poetry, and I’d hear his friends sniggering behind him, egging him on. I dumped a bucket of wash water over him to get him to stop. Father said I was much too harsh, even though his poetry _was_ awful. He was creating a spectacle. Another man used to follow me home from the market.” Emma’s eyes darkened with anger. “He pushed me against the side of the house, in the small alleyway between ours and my neighbor’s. He groped me. I doused him in the eyes with the bottle of perfume that my sister Adrienne sent me out to barter for. Mother tried to send me to a picnic to meet one of the Auntie’s nephews. I knew him; his breath smelled like rotten eggs and I’d caught him staring down my bodice more than once in the library. Before I went to the picnic, in this awful pink gown Father bought me, I rolled down in the Johnson’s horse stables.”

Ororo giggled behind her hand at first, then laughed outright. The sound warmed Emma. “Goodness. You were _so_ ungrateful, Emma.”

“Horrible,” she agreed.

*

The seasons changed, shifting to brisk autumn days and chilly nights. Emma filled Ororo’s armoire with warmer, woolen gowns and soft jackets, knitted scarves and mittens, and a heavy cloak that matched her eyes. Some evenings, Emma found Ororo looking melancholy, pausing in the book that she was reading and just staring off.

“Ororo?”

“Yes?”

“Are you… homesick?”

“Oh. No.” Ororo smiled apologetically. “I’m grateful, Emma. In case you were wondering.”

“But…?” There was _always_ a “but.”

“I just miss my parents. And it’s strange… living without other people’s expectations. Not having those things, and those people, to define the order of things from day to day.”

“You can define your own ‘order of things,’” Emma told her. “Ororo, I need you to tell me something.” She steeled herself. “Are you unhappy here? With me?”

“Oh, Emma. No!” Ororo’s voice held a vehement tone, and her hair swished over her shoulders as she shook her head. “I’m not. I just… I need you to tell me something, too.”

“Anything. Anything you need to know.” Emma leaned forward, breathless and bracing for any possible rejection, no less painful for being polite.

“What do you need from me?”

“What do I-”

“Am I a suitable offering?”

Emma was taken _completely_ aback. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Then opened it.

“The Elders chose me,” Ororo said. “But, would _you_ have chosen me?”

“Oh, Ororo. In a _heartbeat._ ”

And because the uncertainty Emma felt mirrored itself in Ororo’s beautiful eyes, she reached for the book in Ororo’s hands and gently tipped it shut, plucking it from her hands and setting it aside on the fainting couch. Ororo allowed Emma’s fingers to wrap themselves around her hand, tugging on it and urging her to stand.

“When I felt your presence at my door, Ororo, I longed to know you. From the moment you crossed the threshold and announced you were my Gift, I knew the Elders got it right, for a change. I just… forgive my vanity, but I wanted you to feel they had, too.”

Ororo heard the tremor in her voice. She squeezed Emma’s hand, and Ororo took Emma’s other one and smiled, looking for all the world like someone who discovered a secret cache of rainbows. “They finally got it right.”

Surprise and relief bubbled in Emma’s chest. “I was worried, I didn’t think you’d-”

Velvet.

Ororo’s lips felt like velvet.

One moment, Emma was trying to express a coherent thought, and the next, her mind reeled at the sensation of Ororo’s kiss. The room seemed to melt away around them, and Emma became aware of her own rapid pulse and heartbeat that her chest couldn’t seem to contain. Warmth suffused her flesh when Ororo brushed her lips with hers, chaste and soft, asking permission. Asking for Emma’s approval.

Choosing Emma.

Emma opened her eyes and staggered back, eyes charmingly dazed. Ororo’s smile was smug.

“You really shouldn’t worry,” Ororo told her.

“All right.” Emma didn’t recognize the sound of her voice. She sounded bewitched, because she _was_.

“Was that all right? Kissing you?”

“Silly goose,” Emma murmured as she tipped her face up to Ororo and kissed her firmly, sighing in satisfaction at the way Ororo’s arms wrapped around her, trapping her against her softness.

*

Emma didn’t want to hope too hard. Every day she spent with Ororo, riding horses along the trails, walking in the garden and through the orchards, reading and playing chess, and attempting to cook - both of them were _hopeless_ at it, cementing both of their mothers’ fears that they would have made _horrible_ wives - became another day that Emma knew she would cling to desperately when Ororo left her. Her heart ached at the thought of the impending silence and the lack of Ororo’s laughter and teasing jibes.

Emma left Ororo’s thoughts alone, but she insinuated herself into her space, crowding her on couches, joining her by the picture window, and snuggling close to her up in the tree branches. Emma had but to _think_ that she missed the feel of being in Ororo’s arms, and she would pad up quietly behind her and twine her arms around Emma’s waist, kissing the place where her neck and shoulder met. The familiarity became its own entity, fostered by the time they spent together and by silent, and sometimes not so silent, consent. Ororo had but to sidle up to Emma and brush her finger against the back of her hand where it hung by her side, and Emma would turn it, lacing their fingers together. Every time.

[](https://imgur.com/07jwEGz)

*

“You’ll never return to the village,” Ororo mentioned. “You won’t, right?”

“I can’t.” Emma’s spell effectively prevented it. The earth itself rumbled and split before she could venture more than a few steps down the path. She never tried again.

“But, that doesn’t mean you can go down the other side of the hill?”

“I… I never tried.”

“Would you like to?”

The thought never even occurred. 

They rode down the other side, waiting for the wind to push them back, or the ground to devour them, or for lightning to strike them and burn them to ashes, but the rebuke never came. They both wore simple, wool gowns and cloaks, dressed for the long, cold journey. Emma occasionally stared behind them with longing and uncertainy, but Ororo urged her onward. 

“You’ve been up there alone too long, sweet.”

“I don’t know how to live among people, anymore.”

“You only think you don’t.”

“What if… what if they don’t approve-”

“We’ll dump wash water over anyone who disapproves,” Ororo told her easily. A laugh escaped Emma, and she shook her head at her Gift… at her _friend_. Ororo was now her guide as they neared the small town whose lights they saw from a mile out. Emma talked silently with the wind, but it had no answers for her, shrugging at her uncertainty.

_Let the journey be your reward._

They tied their horses outside a small, dark inn. When the large host approached them, he leered down at them, emboldened by their unmatched beauty and the lack of a male companion.

“Don’t recall seeing you two lasses about.”

“Perhaps you have a faulty memory,” Emma challenged. Emma felt Ororo tense beside her.

“There’s no need to be snippy, miss. Perhaps I can interest you two in a little something to wet your whistles?” He had the audacity to stand too close to Emma, invading her space. He even reached out to touch her cheek, enticed by her flawless skin and rosy lips, long sheaves of blonde hair falling down to her breasts.

Ororo saw the moment that he lost control of his own senses and movements. His eyes stared transfixed at a point just beyond them, and his hand dropped.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Emma suggested.

“Don’t be too harsh,” Ororo murmured.

“He was going to see about getting us something to wet our whistles,” Emma reminded her. “I’m just going to send him on his way a bit more quickly, so he can see to it.”

Ororo sighed. “All right.”

“Indulge me.”

“This is what we talked about, when we discussed ‘boundaries.’”

Emma felt a glimmer of shame, but she urged the innkeeper back toward the kitchen while they found themselves a secluded table. His gaze had made both women feel unwashed. But he was much more pleasant when he arrived with two cups of mead and a basket of bread. They made their repast and watched the crowd slowly grow as the night went on. 

This village strongly resembled Emma and Ororo’s, but there were more unmarried women there, some still the objects of fawning men. But there were a select few who kept their own company, or that of their fellow ladies. Sitting a bit too close for mere friendship or etiquette. Whispering intimately and touching while they drank. Staring at one another the way that Emma knew she watched Ororo. 

There were no scolding Aunties. No Elders tsking under their breath or intervening to stop future “Gifts” from being spoiled or compromised. It was _refreshing_.

They paid the innkeeper and retired upstairs to a modest room with rustic furnishings and fraying curtains. They stood at the window and counted the stars together.

“I’d forgotten what this felt like.”

“What, dear?”

“Just… this.”

“Being in a village? Among the crowd?”

“Not failing expectations.”

“Whose?”

“Everyone’s.”

Ororo was solemn as she kissed her, deeply, to reassure her.

They stripped out of their rich clothing, remaining in drawers and slips, climbed into the bed that was barely big enough for the two of them, and listened to each other breathe until sleep claimed them.

“You’ve never been a failure, Emma,” Ororo told her before they dropped off. Her arms tightened around Emma protectively. Emma stroked Ororo’s hair, musing.

The Village Elders sent her a very precious Gift, indeed.

*

 

The winds and beasts weren’t as chatty with Emma as they rode through town the next day after breakfast, browsing small shops and purchasing small trinkets with Emma’s bottomless purse of coins. They greeted small children, old Aunties and other passerby. They were seldom stopped by anyone presumptuous enough to wonder if - why - they were unwed and childless themselves.

They returned to the inn. Their one-day trip bled into five. They returned home exhausted and reflective. Ororo couldn’t have guessed that Emma’s fears of Ororo deserting her multiplied exponentially, now that Ororo had a taste of society once again.

She was _terrified_.

The thoughts ate at her, compromising Emma’s sleep. She grew quieter, and dark smudges appeared under her eyes. Ororo noticed her lack of interest in her cup of cocoa and the lumpy, slightly burnt cookies they’d attempted for dessert.

“They aren’t _that_ bad,” Ororo chided.

“Hm?”

“What’s the matter, Emma?”

Emma looked like she was bursting with the need to share what was on her mind, but she told her “Nothing, dear. Nothing at all.”

Yet, the sadness lingered.

This was as long as her Gift’s sojourn usually lasted. This was when Emma would make her polite, generous offer, and then wait endless days and nights for the next Yielding. It was the way of things.

Emma wept all night, alone in her room. She felt such a confusing mixture of resignation and despair, wishing she had never cast the spell so long ago, that she would have been long gone from the earth before meeting the perfect woman, only to inevitably have to give her up.

Her winds gave her no solace.

*

 

Ororo woke up to the sensation that something was different in her bedroom. She yawned and stretched, eyes cracking open to enjoy the first rays of morning sunlight through the sheers covering her window.

She made a sound of wonder when she spied the long, elaborate gown hanging across the room from a peg. Deep, gleaming, royal blue silk, dripping with jewels, falling in graceful folds and flounces, so grand that it was shame that no one else was likely to ever lay eyes upon it. Ororo felt delight bubble inside her as she struggled free from the sheets and crossed the room, smiling. “You wonderful, ridiculous woman,” she murmured. Ororo laughed as she held it up against her body, stroking the luxurious fabric in appreciation.

Emma appeared in the doorway, and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of her Gift preening for a moment, sleep-tousled and soft, holding her present and looking very pleased, indeed. “That’s for you to wear to supper.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“You never need an occasion to wear a beautiful gown, dear.”

“It’s far too nice for me.”

“Ridiculous.”

Ororo smiled and hung the dress back on the peg. She met Emma at the doorway and leaned in for a long, thorough good-morning kiss. “ _You’re_ too nice for me.”

“Even _more_ ridiculous. Perish the thought.”

“Are we going to make breakfast?”

“I’m conjuring it. Because I’m famished, and if we try that again, we’ll never eat.”

“Well, that’s hardly any fun at all.”

“We really need to work on how you define ‘fun,’ Ororo.”

“Let me wash up and get dressed.” She kissed Emma once more, and Emma left her to her ablutions and pampering. When Ororo arrived in the breakfast nook, she smelled like the fine jasmine perfumes Emma provided her with, and her hair hung down in loose, flowing curls. She wore a simple day dress and the slippers Emma gave her on the night she arrived. She looked so fresh and beautiful that Emma felt strangled, and her voice was halting as she asked her, “I didn’t know if you wanted cocoa or tea, so I made both.”

“You know me so well, by now.”

That, Emma thought, was why it only hurt _more_.

They walked in the garden again. They lounged in the library while Ororo read to Emma from a tome of poetry, nothing like Emma’s one-time suitor’s terrible sonnets. Emma couldn’t - wouldn’t - read Ororo’s thoughts, but her Gift radiated contentment while Emma reclined back against her, pressed into the curves and hollows of her body and sharing heat. Emma’s focus was narrowed down to Ororo’s breathing, the deep lilt and cadence of her words, and the sweet scent of jasmine on her skin. 

*

Emma scolded herself that she was being too maudlin as she dressed for supper. With a thought, she expanded the picture window in the ballroom - the chamber she’d lead Ororo to when she first arrived - to twice its size, to offer a better view of the night sky, inky black and littered with a riot of twinkling stars and the judgmental, full silver moon that mocked Emma with the night’s events, reminding Emma of how she gave up her mortality and her life among the populace with three drops of blood and a curse, on a moonlit night. She lit the sconces, and she concentrated on the room, conjuring music, high-spirited and lively, knowing Ororo would be drawn to it.

Her Gift didn’t disappoint her. “What’s this?” she called from the doorway.

“Just a change from our usual routine, which isn’t much of a routine when you… think… about. It.” Emma turned at the sound of Ororo’s voice, but her own died when she caught sight of her in _that gown_ , wearing it more capably than the most stately ladies in the village. Her lush curves filled out the blue silk, drawing Emma’s eyes to her full, ripe breasts revealed by the decolletage, her narrow waist and slender arms revealed by the three-quarter length sleeves frilled in spills of lace. Ororo had her hair pinned back from her face, hanging in loose curls down her back. She glided into the ballroom, smiling shyly. 

“You said you wanted me to wear this to supper.”

Emma’s voice didn’t want to work. “Dinner can wait a minute. Ororo? Please, dance with me.”

“I… I don’t know how,” she admitted with a laugh. 

“That was the only thing my brother Winston was good for,” Emma told her. “Come here.” Ororo hesitated. “You’ve never been shy. There’s no need to start now.”

“This is just… it’s so…” Ororo didn’t know how to explain how strange it felt. Had there been onlookers, they would have perhaps made a spectacle. But within moments, with Emma’s gentle coaxing and after a few awkward steps, they were waltzing gracefully around the room in a smooth reel. Ororo smiled and laughed, equal parts disbelieving and charmed.

“You didn’t tell me this was one of your strengths,” she accused.

“It just never came up.”

“The song is lovely. Where is it from?”

_I hear it every time I look at you._ “Just something I heard, once.”

Emma delayed dinner for a while longer. They danced, song after song, until Ororo’s stomach began to growl. Emma’s smile faltered for a moment, but it regained its radiance when she led Ororo back to the dining room.

They drank hot, spiced mulled wine this time, eschewing their usual cocoa. They consumed the roasted pheasant and baby potatoes basted in seasoned butter, lemony spinach with enthusiasm, but Ororo finally noticed Emma’s reticence to eat the sorbet, spoon hovering over the small, pink mound, trembling slightly.

“Emma,” Ororo asked with genuine concern, “sweetheart, what’s wrong? You look like you’re ailing.”

The time had come. Emma could no longer dally over it. “I’m about to give you a choice that not many women in your place receive, child.”

“Pardon?” Ororo’s brow furrowed. “What on earth are you saying?” Emma felt Ororo’s distress growing as she fought the words, wanting to choke them back, but they sprang from her lips. The cycle would continue. The next Yielding demanded it.

“ Your freedom was taken from you, and you have willingly stayed here as part of your sentence, rather than perish.”

“Emma-” Ororo shook her head, smile vanishing. She set down her sorbet spoon. “What are you going on about? Of _course_ I haven’t perished, you’ve give me everything I’ve ever-”

“You have fulfilled your obligation to your village.” Emma’s eyes filled and her chin trembled. Her words were labored and breathy. And oh, how it hurt. Emma’s heart felt as though it was being carved out with a knife.

“I’ve never felt obligated to my village! Look what they did! They cast me out! You took me in! Emma, please!” Ororo’s eyes teared up, too, and she shook her head in disbelief. “You’ve given me everything! Haven’t I been suitable?”

Emma rose from the table, as she always did, each time she relinquished her Gift. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she pushed the words from her lips. Her voice was broken and resigned. “You may stay with me, or you may find your fortune alone.”

Ororo’s face was bleak, but she straightened up in her seat, releasing an exasperated breath. “May I, truly?” There was a note of mocking in her tone, but her eyes… oh, her eyes. They swam with pain and betrayal.

Emma couldn’t bear it. “That is my final gift to you, should y-you ch-choose… to accept it.’ 

Emma spun on her heel and fled the dining room. Ororo was left behind at the table, no longer hungry, wondering where she’d missed the signals or misinterpreted Emma’s intentions for her to reject her so cruelly. “Emma!” she called. “EMMA!”

Ororo heard the low slam of Emma’s chamber door, and it unleashed her sobs in a miserable tide.

 

*

Emma changed out of her own finery, hanging up the eye-catching, white silk gown that had been just as rich with lace as Ororo’s had been with jewels. She packed a satchel for Ororo, assuming she wouldn’t linger behind long. She included the sweet jasmine perfume and rich creams for her skin, jewels, silk scarves, and some winter gear. She laid out the blue cloak, knowing Ororo would drape herself in it against the cold; the mornings had grown as chilly as the nights as autumn progressed.

Emma hugged it to herself before she set it down, breathing Ororo’s scent from its folds. Tears threatened to fall again. She walked around her room, looking for other trinkets and treasures that Ororo might appreciate, whether to keep for herself or to barter until she settled herself in another place. Perhaps she might find a worthy partner in the town they’d visited, Emma mused. She deserved someone kind, who would see past her indescribable beauty to her intelligent and sassy humor, to her kindness. 

It was better this way, than forcing Ororo to share Emma’s self-imposed exile in the hills. 

Emma drew water for a bath, filling the large, claw-footed tub in mere moments. Steam wafted up into the air, and Emma scattered its surface with rose petals and sprigs of lavender. She let her chemise and drawers drop to the floor and stepped into the water, sinking under it until it saturated her hair, plastering it to her neck. Emma closed her eyes and wondered which of her horses Ororo would choose for her journey. Perhaps the ginger-colored mare…

A few minutes later, Emma felt her presence in the doorway before she even spoke.

“I thought we had an understanding, Emma.”

Emma jerked upright, making a few droplets splash up from the tub. “What?”

Ororo glared down at her. She was only wearing her slip, and her feet were bare. Her hair was down, free of its careful styling. Her blue eyes flashed with indignation. “How dare you try to make up my mind for me. Is this how you treat all of the women who sacrifice themselves to you? Are you so determined to cast me out? Emma, are you truly so _blind?_ ”

Emma’s jaw worked. She fought to find words, but Ororo radiated hurt. Her posture was stiff and tense. She clung to the edge of the doorway, fingernails digging into the frame. “Do I mean that little to you, Emma?”

“No.” And Emma’s traitorous eyes burned again, throat clogging with her emotions. “That’s not… that’s not why.”

“Then, why?”

“You’re so…” Emma shook her head. “You’re just-”

“I don’t want excuses. Please. I deserve more than that.”

“Yes, you do, Ororo. I’m so sorry. I can’t… keep you. I can’t force you to stay, just because I must.”

“But, Emma. You _mustn’t._ ” Ororo’s eyes narrowed. “You can leave, if you wish.”

“The magic weakens when I leave my home.”

“You manipulated the innkeeper.”

“But he slipped free of my control.” The confession felt strange, leaving Emma raw. “People’s thoughts began to slip away. The winds stopped speaking to me until we returned.”

“But you walked among them, with me. You lived. You weren’t the White Queen atop the hill.” Ororo shook her head, then let out a mirthless laugh. “Ridiculous, stubborn woman.”

“I will always be the White Queen, because of the curse.”

“You will always be Emma, despite it.” Ororo entered the room, determined. “I want you to read me.”

Emma froze. “Ororo. No. Don’t. Don’t make me, please!”

“Why not?”

“Your thoughts. They’re sacred to you, and I can’t-”

“You can. You _must_.”

“But… why?”

“Because there are things I can’t explain. Things that are best for you to find out yourself.” Ororo paused by the tub, and if she was affected by the sight of Emma’s body under the water, rosy and bare, all of her curves on display, she indicated nothing. Ororo stared down into Emma’s face, and she held out her hand. “Come inside, Emma.”

Emma shook her head again, but Ororo kept her hand out in entreaty. 

“Emma.”

“Those are your secrets. Your precious thoughts. I won’t steal them from you.”

“You can’t if I am giving them to you.”

Ororo remembered the night she arrived. How Emma refused her gift of her mother’s ruby, not because it wasn’t precious, but because she didn’t need riches, and that she wouldn’t take her last memento of N’Dare. When Ororo was cold, Emma gave her warmth and shelter. When she was hungry, she gave her long, leisurely suppers and ripe cherries and cocoa in the library. When Ororo was lonely, she filled the hours with games and poetry, danced with her and brought her into the garden where she shaped the very clouds.

It was time for Ororo to give something back. To make Emma see.

“Please, Emma.”

“I know how you feel about it.”

“Do you?”

Challenge. It was a challenge. Emma sat up straighter in the tub, heedless of her nudity, and she hesitated. After months of wondering if Ororo, herself, would hesitate, when the time came.

Her answer stood there, angry and betrayed, desperate for Emma to share her most intimate thoughts. Hand shaking. Emma reached for it, hoping Ororo didn’t mind her damp grip, and she closed her eyes, feeling the small jump in Ororo’s pulse.

Emma’s breath hitched. She made a helpless sound as she entered the corridors of Ororo’s mind. She _felt_ her surrounding her, warm and vibrant, hearing the low echoes of conversations they’d had. Reliving moments that Ororo treasured, not just the ones they shared. Her first arrival to the village, because they were driven away from their previous home by a plague. Playing with the pesky boy, Logan, as a child, and later, as coarse but devoted friends. The first time the Auntie that ran the library took Ororo under her wing and walked her through the musty shelves, feeding her valuable, untarnished mind.

Emma lived each one as though it was hers. Some of them were bitter. Some of them made her weep. A riot of emotions overwhelmed her, and she no longer knew which were her own.

Ororo’s memories of her trek up the hill slowly unspooled themselves. The cruel, uncomfortable sandals that rubbed her feet raw. The crunch of leaves beneath her feet. The sounds of crickets. The all-encompassing fear and resignation that she wouldn’t live to see another full moon, even as the one above her bathed Ororo in its brilliance. Her first view of Emma’s home, and the way she felt when she heard Emma’s voice on the wind.

She experienced Ororo’s outright terror at the moment of her sacrifice. Emma felt like a heel. Ororo’s fear was genuine, her initial reward for her earlier bravery when she walked up the hill alone. Emma would never forgive herself for it, now, no matter how many decades her life stretched. 

But then, she tasted Ororo’s wonder and pleasant surprise at the moment that she laid eyes upon Emma in her true form. 

Ororo relived that moment, too, in Emma’s bathing chamber, eyes closed and gripping Emma’s hand tightly. She smiled, and tears slipped down her cheeks.

By the time they finished breakfast the next day, Ororo was intrigued.

By the time she first showed Ororo how to commune with the trees, Ororo was truly infatuated.

Emma trembled, and her breathing became choppy as she immersed herself in the rest of Ororo’s memories.

Riding on horseback in the sunlight. Lying together on the grass, feeling the wind sweep over their skin. The feel of Emma’s hands on Ororo’s body, almost burning her through the thin silk. The helpless, overwhelming rush of attraction. The triumph of their first soft, sweet kiss. So many visions of Emma, in repose. Floating in the air, lifted by vines. Bartering with villagers for perfumes. Smiling, as though she had a secret. Ororo saw her in all these ways.

And Ororo adored Emma. Loved her more than her own life. It shook Emma to her core.

Emma’s eyes snapped open, and she stared up at Ororo, at their still-linked hands.

“You know why I can’t leave you.” Ororo shook her head sadly, resigned. “Unless you choose to cast me out. That won’t stop the Yielding, will it?”

“No.”

“The decade is still young, then.” Ororo told her. She released Emma’s hand and backed away from the tub. “Enjoy your castle.” 

“No!”

“I’m sorry, Emma.” 

“Don’t!” Terror seized Emma, and she stood up in the tub. “Ororo, please, STOP!”

“Why?” Ororo was almost to the doorway.

“Because I love you, too, you impossible woman!” The air chilled Emma’s damp, bare skin. Ororo froze for several breathless moments.

She turned, and tears leaked from her eyes, staining her shift. “What?”

“You heard me loud and clear, you silly twit.”

“All right,” Ororo said weakly. “I just wanted to be sure I heard you correctly.”

“Good.”

“Good, then.”

Ororo didn’t realize her feet had obeyed her command to move until she was beside the tub again, and Emma’s hands reached for her, pulling her close so she could claim her sweet, yearning mouth. Emma made a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh when Ororo wrapped her in her arms and kissed her hungrily. Long, drugging, hot kisses while Emma framed her face between her palms. She nearly stumbled over the edge of the tub, but Ororo steadied her, hands gripping Emma’s waist.

“You’re naked.”

“You could be, too.”

Ororo had no qualms about this. Emma’s hands slipped down to the straps of Ororo’s chemise and slid them down from her shoulders, letting the garment drop down to the floor. Emma lost herself in more kisses and the feel of Ororo’s skin under her palms, how her body yielded to Emma’s touch. She felt so warm and soft and still smelled like spicy jasmine.

Emma drew back first, regretting it immediately, and Ororo’s eyes were glazed with passion. “It’s chilly in here. Come in here with me.”

“It’s not big enough for the two of us.” But Ororo was staring at her with so much passion. 

Emma chuckled. “It’s plenty big enough. Stop quibbling and get into this tub.” She pulled Ororo’s hand, urging her to step into the water, and Ororo laughed at her insistence. But she moaned when Emma kissed her again, no more barriers between them as they stood knee-deep, bodies flush against each other. Hands found full, tempting breasts with puckered nipples. Fingers explored rib cages and the dents in the small of the back, and the hollows of throats and elegant collarbones. Emma still shared Ororo’s thoughts. Her emotions swept Emma up within their irresistible tide and blinding purity. Emma felt loved. _Adored_. Needed. Worthy. Deeply cherished.

“You’re my Gift.”

“And you’re _mine_.”

They sank down into the water and grew lost in each other.

 

*

Hours later, they lay in Emma’s enormous four-poster bed, limbs tangled together in the darkness. Their hair was still damp. Emma was limp and replete in Ororo’s embrace. Ororo’s fingers sifted through her hair, enjoying its lustrous waves, and she traced the contours of Emma’s face in wonder.

“I don’t remember ever feeling this happy.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

Emma heard Ororo smile before she kissed the top of her head. “Me, too.” Emma shifted herself and caressed the column of Ororo’s throat with her lips. Ororo chuckled.

“Stop that, it tickles!”

“You didn’t mind it before.”

“Before you turned me completely into jelly, no. I didn’t mind at all. I’m _exhausted_.”

Emma felt supremely flattered and satisfied. “I love you, Ororo.”

“I love you, too. Even though you’re ridiculous.”

Emma felt a frisson of guilt rising within her again, but Ororo poked her. “Stop that. We discussed it.”

“I was so wrong. I just assumed, when I shouldn’t have. That you’d leave like the rest.”

“I’m greedier than the rest,” Ororo explained. She caressed Emma’s smooth skin, tracing little patterns over it with her fingertips. “Every time you gave me something else, you made it harder for me to leave.”

“I gave the others the same things. Gowns, books-”

“You gave me yourself. Your humor. Your beautiful smile. Your wonderful laugh. Your memories and your stories.”

“You’re really going to have to stop making me cry, Ororo.”

“Can I make you make that little sound again, then? From when I did this?” Ororo tugged on Emma’s upper arms and shifted them until Emma felt herself rolled on top of Ororo, and Emma found Emma’s throat, breathing over it and gently nibbling on it until Emma gasped, thrusting her hips down against herself. She grew wanton with need when Ororo swirled her tongue over her skin, feeling Ororo grope and squeeze her round backside.

“If. You. Must.”

This time was no less frenzied than the last. Ororo thrust up at Emma, guiding her hips and grounding against her sensitive sex, suckling her overstimulated breasts until Emma came, shuddering and crying out.

They had all the time in the world to catch up on sleep.

*

It took Emma three days to realize that the winds no longer spoke to her. Neither did the creatures in the surrounding woods. They remained indoors for that long, finding new ways to touch and kiss each other. They finished each other’s thoughts aloud, even though Emma could no longer read Ororo’s.

She truly didn’t mind. Ororo was an open book, now. Emma saw all the things that she’d been blind to before, and heard all of the things Ororo didn’t say, now that she knew how to listen. The clouds ignored Emma as much as they did anyone else. The trees no longer stretched out their vines or lifted the women into their branches, so they climbed up on ladders to peek at the nesting birds, and when summer rolled around again, to pick the sweet, delectable cherries, eating them until their fingers were stained red.

The decade was the shortest one Emma could remember, marked by trips down the other side of the hill to barter with the townsfolk and the Aunties. As the decade turned, and the villagers braced for the White Queen’s messenger to declare that the time for a sacrifice was at hand, they scratched their heads when none came. The ground no longer shook, and their fields didn’t turn fallow. None of the livestock died until it was time for slaughter. The curse was broken.

There was great feasting and celebration in the village. None of the virgins were harassed or singled out again. (Well, perhaps harassed.) Neither woman felt tempted to return to their former home, as the Elders hadn’t changed, and the gossip flowed like wine. Emma wasn’t ready to give up her mystery and status as a legend and a woman worth fearing. Ororo swatted at her goodnaturedly when she voiced this aloud.

The decades passed slowly, sweetly. Ororo and Emma grew old together, still unmarried and childless. Bickering. Playing chess and walking in the garden. Still hopelessly bad cooks. Still making love as though someone would come and take it away from them any minute.

They still watched the stars, counting them from the big picture window. If the winds still spoke to Emma, she never noticed. Not when her days, and her nights, were so well occupied by her favorite houseguest.

 

FIN.


End file.
